Wading Through the River
by Gossamer Nightmare
Summary: It was wading through the river where he finally lost his mind, and like a child, he cried out for the hand that had once held a firm grip on his heart.


Wading Through the River

-Sequel to Stagnant Stream-

- -

**A/N:** Well, I had been thinking about writing a sequel to this, as Stagnant Stream wasn't really FrUk. This one will be though! I tried very hard to make this capable of standing on its own, but I'm not so sure how it turned out. Anyhow, enjoy!

**Pairing:** FrUk, with past mentions of UKUS, kind of like how it was in Stagnant Stream…only less UKUS and more FrUk.

**Rating: **T, for coarse language and some bloodshed.

**Summary:** It was wading through the river where he finally lost his mind, and like a child, he cried out for the hand that had once held a firm grip on his heart.

---

Arthur can't remember the last time he has spoken to Francis. Two weeks? Three? His mind is foggy with the alcohol in his system, but he tries nonetheless.

"…_Arthur! Arthur, Mon Dieu! What…!?"_

"_Shut up, Francis," he hisses, applies a good amount of pressure to the pedal under his foot, rocketing the car further down the road, at speeds far too illegal—it lurches to the left and jerks to the right with the sway of Arthur's body._

"_Arthur, slow down, you are –" Francis stops mid-sentence upon impact, a pained scream ripping his throat raw, louder than the screeching tires and shattering glass and dented metal. Though his mind is still hazy then, he has enough state of mind to know that scream, because he'll remember it from now on, will know exactly what it means and how it sounds._

_It's the sound of Francis in mortal danger, the blood-red sound that still rings in his ears, the back-drop of his nightmares._

_It's the sound of Arthur shattering the bond they once shared._

He drinks down the burning liquid left in the shot glass in front of him and crosses his arms atop the table, slumping over it. He hides his face in shame. While he was told not to drink, was supposed to be monitored closer, here he was, in a bar—perhaps the worst place to be caught after such an incident. But he could not stop himself. It was a compulsion stronger than his resolve. Albeit, his resolve wasn't strong in the first place, but then again, it hadn't been, ever since…

Ever since he had began to feel guilt.

"Arthur! There you are!" He flinched immediately at the sound of that voice, and swiveled around in his chair.

"Alfred, leave me the hell alone, bloody—" he sways dangerously and falls from his chair, hitting his head on the place he had been sitting previously. His mouth is opened in silent pain before he suddenly grins and begins to laugh rather loudly.

Matthew sighs. "…You must be horribly drunk. Come on. We're heading home." The Canadian picks Arthur up beneath the armpits and begins to drag him from the bar, towards the door. When the bartender yells at him to pay, he mutters a quiet apology and promises to return for the bill in just a moment. He shifts his grip on Arthur slightly, grunting with the effort of holding up his weight.

Arthur's eyes are shut, his head pressed against Matthew's shoulders. He begins to talk in a quiet voice as he's propped against the car door, while Matthew fishes for his keys in the massive pocket of his hoodie. "Alfred…Alfred, Alfred, s-sorry…"

Matthew freezes.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry…I'm sorry…do you hate me, Alfred? I don't think I can fully let you go…"

"Arthur," Matthew begins, only to be interrupted.

"You must hate me. God, I'm an idiot…I tried, I really did. But I…I kept thinking of you. And it hurt, it really hurt—I think it hurt him, too. I think he could tell. I think he hates me, too," he chokes, biting at his lower lip. "I hurt him, Alfred…I hurt him in more ways than one…I hurt myself, too…" A moment of silence where he shakes and sobs violently, tears bursting from his eyes, though he'd likely deny that he ever cried in front of Matthew. "…I just want to forget about you, damn it…_go away!_ You're ruining my life!" He kicks and screams and Matthew does all he can in order to detain the Brit, but he's still screaming even when Matthew is trying to calm him down, telling him he's not Alfred. "_You're ruining my life!_ Get out, get out, _**go**_! Leave me alone! _Leave me the hell alone!!_" And his sobs are more violent than ever.

It takes what feels to be two hours—but in reality is only ten minutes—for Arthur to calm down. When he is in a state of quiet once more, Matthew finds his keys, unlocks the car, and puts him inside it. "Stay here. I'll be right back." Matthew locks the car and walks away to pay the bill Arthur left him.

In the silence of the car, against the cool material all around him, Arthur tilts his head back, foggy thoughts focusing in on one piece of information in particular.

"Oh." He laughs at himself, thinks that his voice is the most disgusting thing he's heard tonight. "It's been a _month_." And the former smile and laughter in his voice ceased.

_Francis slips his hand around Arthur's. He finds the grip warming, finds himself gripping back a little tighter. They leave the cemetery hand-in-hand, smiling, towards a brighter future._

_The grip is loosened over time. It would seem that, wherever they went, Alfred's memory would follow, sliding between them, grinning like the idiot he is._

_Arthur wants desperately for Alfred to leave, but at the same time, he wants him there, never wants to forget. His grip loosens again on Francis' hand, and Francis' grip on his own begins to slacken as well. At first, it had only been Arthur falling. But Arthur brought him down too, refused to let go of the hand he held on his heart._

_They were going to fall. He knew this all along._

_But something in his heart kept telling him to try, to not let go entirely…_

_And his hands were bloody, soaked in someone else's blood, which he had spilled a month ago. He could not put it out of his mind, just as he could not push Alfred from it._

_After all their effort, it was in vain, destroyed by a foolish mind._

_They would not have a brighter future after all._

Arthur jolts awake as the car comes to a sudden stop. Matthew had driven him home. Before the Canadian could do any more, he mumbled a thank-you, slipped from the car, and stumbled into his home after struggling with the lock.

When the car leaves the driveway, he slides to the floor and sighs, crawls to and up the stairway, locks himself in the bathroom; he strips down to nothing and takes a long shower that starts as hot and fades to frigid, but he barely feels the difference. He showered simply for the sake of following his daily routine.

The shower pelts his skin relentlessly. Arthur looks up at the showerhead. "Ah, that's right…" Its pressure had to be fixed. The way it beat against his skin, he knew his skin would be covered in angry red welts. He had showered at Francis' house for the past few months for a reason.

He pushes the knob and pulls back the shower curtain. Walking onto the towel he'd lain down prior to using the shower, he picked up a hand towel and washed himself off, half-awakened from his alcohol-induced daze. The swaying he had experienced prior to stepping into the shower had all but diminished, and all he had to show for his drunkenness was his hazy mind.

The door creaks as he opens it. Within a long time range, Arthur slips into his own room and falls onto the bed, unclothed and uncaring. His hair dampens the pillow. His tears wet the corners of his eyes. As he recounts his miserable day of classes, work, walking to the bar and remembrance, he finds himself in the cradle of nightmare, rocking him gently in her steel grip, hushing him to sleep with a cold lullaby, kissing his eyes with powdered dreams of the substances pulled from the deepest corners of his mind.

"_You're lucky," the doctor mutters, shaking his head, "so very, very lucky. Your friend? Not so much."_

_Arthur's eyes went wide. He instantly hopped from the bed, heedless of the doctor's cries to sit down. "What?!"_

"_Mr. Kirkland, sit down, please!"_

"_No. Tell me, what did I—what happened to Francis?!"_

_The doctor clears his throat, purses his lips. "I'm not to reveal the status of patients."_

"_If you want to know, his room is just across the hall," a nurse breaks in with a soft smile._

"_Thank you," Arthur rushes through the door and from the hallway, into the room just next to his own._

_There, Francis lies on his bed, bandaged and battered. Broken._

_Arthur cannot say anything. He simply breathes heavily, releasing his exhale quietly so as to not catch Francis' attention. To see a sight like this brings up the itching urge to drink down a bottle of the strongest ale he can find. And for this, Arthur hates himself a little more than he had yesterday._

_He begins to think the worst, that Francis will hate him—still thinks that Francis hates him, really—and never speak to him again, that he has ruined the best thing to happen to him since…since __**his**__ death…that there is nothing left for him anymore, and this is enough to bring back his burning desire to drink and forget, forget and drink, because really, what else can he do to fix himself? Just as he paces about, a rasping voice croaks out his name._

"…_Arthur," Francis' head is turned towards him. He looks pale and tired, and through this, he still manages a certain level of attractiveness._

_He looks like Alfred lying on the bed through chemo, straining a smile and trying his hardest to make the Brit laugh. Arthur must take a step back and shake his head. 'No no, nonono…' He cannot stop his mind from thinking the two look the same, if the only difference is the fact that nothing poisonous drips into his body, that there are bandages and broken bones instead of broken spirits and wounded heroes._

"…_Arthur, come here," Francis attempts to croon, but his voice falls below hurt and depression. "Arthur…"_

_Arthur takes a step back, mouth wide open. He does not know how to respond, and most certainly does not want to see this. As he does so, he knows he's made a big mistake. Francis' expression becomes pained. Not external pain, like he surely felt last night—all of it Arthur's fault, oh, if only he had just __**stopped drinking **__when __**Gilbert of all people**__ told him to—but a pain in the heart, a stab of the knife into the spirit, wielded by Arthur himself._

"_Arthur, s'il vous plaît, come back! Oh, Arthur…s'il vous plaît! __**Please!**__" That voice was hurt, wounded. As he rounded the corner of the hospital's hallway at full-sprint, he could still hear the raspy begging in his ears, could still hear it over the roar of the car speeding down the roads, padding down the pavement with people crying out about him and sending him disapproving glares, as he ran home, ran away from his mistakes, unable to rectify the things he'd done. He wasn't strong enough._

_And perhaps it was just that problem that led him to drink away his worries._

_The burn of the vodka that slid down his throat was enchanting._

_The touch of whiskey in his mouth set his heart on fire._

_The beer cooled and numbed the edges of his mind, not quite reaching deep enough…_

_The rum reached the core of his mind, closed off all the hurt, drenched his sorrow enough to dance the night away with strangers, make the antisocial Arthur social, made him hear very little of that raspy voice and the blaring horns, creaking metal and smashing glass._

_Then again, he would hear them all too loudly the next morning._

Arthur awoke in the morning to a massive headache. He pulls the still-damp sheets from his body and rubs at his reddened eyes, dresses himself in the pajamas he should have put on last night. To alleviate the pent up anger from unspoken words and the steel hold of nightmare all through sleep, he slams the door behind him. Instantly, he cringes, regrets his choice. When he reaches the bathroom and fulfills his natural needs, he turns to the medicine cabinet and swallows down two more Advil than he needs.

For once, his will is strong and firm. He refuses to lose the most recent contents of his stomach, swallows down the bit of bile that rose to his throat, and ignores the biting sting of acid burning through the flesh of his gullet. The stairs prove difficult to his sensitized eyes, with all the natural lighting gushing through the wide windows. He pulls the chair out and pushes it in once he's firmly seated upon it, ducks his head and groans. Its cool surface helps to direct the stinging pain in the center of his head away, numb it, and cover it up. But he is all too aware that it still lingers.

The sound of the curtains being drawn draws his attention upward. Matthew smiles sheepishly at him. "Good morning, Arthur." His voice has always been quiet enough to tolerate, even during the worst of his hangovers.

"…How'd you get in?" He narrows his eyes at the Canadian.

"I borrowed Francis' spare key," he admits.

Arthur growls. "…So you told him." He didn't even have to ask the question—the answer was obvious. Both knew what words would be spoken. It was more a statement, for the sake of saying _something_, rather than saying _nothing_.

Matthew's cheeks color in embarrassment. "He's concerned about you, Arthur."

"Oh, yeah?" His tone is sharp and venomous. "Then why hasn't he called?!"

"Because—" Matthew searches for an answer. "Because…because he won't push himself on you!"

"What great help _that's_ been," he objects, glaring.

"Oh, shut up, Arthur! You haven't been much help, either!"

"If he cared, even just a tiny bit, he would stop me when I drink! He would be pushy; like he had been with _every other fucking lover_ he's _ever had_!"

Matthew raises his voice enough that it begins to grate on his slightly-dulling headache. "He's not pushy because he's afraid you'll turn away! God, have you two _ever_ talked about your relationship?!"

"It doesn't matter! I'm not going to sit there and talk with him if he's not going to talk with me!"

The atmosphere shifts. Matthew's anger reaches him, snaps his anger in half until his eyes become wide with fear; he is gathering his things, pulling on his coat. "Damn it, Arthur, you're such an _ass_!" He storms towards the door, hand just above the doorknob, before he turns to look at Arthur once again. "Alfred's been dead for nearly two years now. When are you going to wake up and realize the man you're with is Francis?" The door slams behind him.

Arthur sinks further down into the chair of his dining room table, buries his head in his arms. He feels like crying, but he cannot even bring himself to do that. It's because he knows that Matthew was right, that he cannot seem to let go of an old memory, and it scared him enough that he began the slow and destructive path to destruction. If he went on this way, would he end up like Alfred? Dead?

He shakes violently at the thought and stands, running for the bathroom as the bile he'd held back for so long rose in his throat and threatened to leak from his pliable, willing lips.

It takes quite some time before he is calm and no more vomit threatens to ruin his morning. By the time food and drink (non-alcoholic, he is proud to say) is in his stomach, noon has rolled about. The hangover he'd been experiencing dulled down enough that he could watch the news. A sigh slips from his mouth. Recently he has felt as if he has been wading through the raging river, fighting the current but not quite winning, all the while reaching out desperately for a hand. And now he realizes that there had been a hand there all along, and while he'd thought he'd taken hold of it, he had shunned it all together and condemned himself to death.

The tea he had made himself went unfinished. A forlorn sigh of utmost understanding this time. He drops the cup in the sink and heads upstairs, for the photo album tucked away in the dark recesses of Alfred's old closet.

He runs his hands over everything. Everything had been left to him, and he'd yet to do a thing with it. As if curious, he smells the air of the untouched closet to see if it still holds the scent of Alfred. Only a faint trace wafts into his nostrils. He realizes that he really hasn't let go at all, despite all the effort he'd taken. This makes him sink to his knees, breathing erratic, still unable to cry, still not strong enough to take the first steps. His hands reach out for the photo album, move a few shoe boxes to the side, but stop the instant the spine of the book touches the tips of his fingers. It makes him shiver and whine, wishes he could just snatch the book up and hug it to his chest, but his hand will not close around it. With a dissatisfied, disgruntled roar, Arthur rolls onto his side and curls up in a fetal position, cries without the tears, and begins to plead that nightmares will leave him alone tonight.

No tears streak down his face. And this is perhaps the motivation he needs. Arthur picks himself up and stands, determined to fix his mistakes. He grabs his cell phone from the pocket of last night's pants, flips it open and surfs through the contacts, chooses the right number, and places it against his ear.

A tired voice, strained from lack of sleep and too much worry, answers, "Bonjour!" Its cheerful tone is forced. This is enough to make Arthur cringe.

"Yes, hello, Francis," Arthur answers, and waits for a reaction. The other line of the phone is silent.

"…Truly? Arthur, this is you? Mon dieu, I thought…!"

Arthur sighs. "And really…I apologize for that. Francis, I—I don't know what happened." He sniffles. _Now_ the tears come. He curses himself, as he is sure Francis can hear, or somehow knows, he is crying. "I guess I hadn't really let go."

"Perhaps a year wasn't long enough?"

"No…no, that's not it! It's…it's that I never talk with you, isn't it? I never let anyone in unless they really push me. I'll never explain on my own if it's up to me." Arthur rubs away the moisture at the edges of his eyes.

Francis' even breathing on the phone is enough to make the moisture return. He hasn't heard him in so long. "And there is fault in me as well. Suis-je pardonné? It would seem as if I have messed up. Perhaps…pushing you would have been better?"

"F-Francis," he hiccups, and feels pathetic because of it. "I guess we're both i-idiots. I'm so sorry…sorry that I h-hurt you. I'm s-sorry I let it go so far. God, I c-can't apologize en-nough!"

"Non, Arthur, hush," Francis' voice is soothing. "Ne pas se soucier de lui. I feel partially responsible as well. Ah, Arthur…" There is a longing sigh that makes him shiver in a way he hasn't in such a long time.

"Francis?"

"Hm?"

"Can I ask y-you for a f-favor?" A short pause, in which he bites his lip.

"Oui. What is it that you need, mon amour?"

"C-could you come over in about an hour? There's s-something I need your h-help with."

"Of course. I will be over soon. Adieu!"

"Goodbye," Arthur whispers, before the line goes dead. He tucks his phone back into his pocket and moves back upstairs to change from his pajamas into something more suitable. All the while, he rubs at his eyes and remembers the photo album tucked away in the corner of Alfred's old closet.

He waits downstairs for the doorbell. It is, perhaps, the longest wait he's ever experienced—a long wait in which it feels to be forever, though it is the period of time he gave Francis to get to his home—in which he bites his lip and fights off the growing temptation to cancel, to run away and find a bar, to drink and simply forget. But he cannot break this time. He knows doing so will make things worse, and to make things worse would be to break things beyond repair. And oh, does he want to _repair_ this!

The chime of the bell wakes Arthur from his stare-off with the wall. He notes that he has been clutching his knees tightly, the fabric of his dress pants now wrinkled – something uncharacteristic of Arthur, who always irons his clothes, always looks clean-pressed and neat, punctual and stuffy, too high-strung and not laid-back enough for modern society. The thought makes him grimace. "Honestly," he mutters to himself, standing to answer the door. Francis is, quite obviously, behind it.

He holds a bouquet of red roses and baby's breath, smiles brilliantly at Arthur. His eyes have dark circles about them. "For you, mon amour."

Arthur is sure he has blushed, as Francis' smile turns into an amused smirk. He snatches up the flowers, says, "You didn't have to get me flowers—it's not a date. Now get in here!" and turns sharply on his heel, walking down the hallway with a clipped gait, and wanders into the kitchen, the Frenchman following close behind.

"I thought they might make you smile. Was I correct?" He leans over Arthur's shoulder as the Brit fills up a glass vase with water, finding that he is indeed smiling. Arthur instantly stops, glowers a bit, and shoves him back by the forehead.

"Shut up." Arthur places the flowers in the vase and moves them to the dining room table. He then turns to look at Francis, releases a puff of air that flips his bangs up. Francis chuckles quietly before he speaks.

"Now then, mon amour, what is it that you wanted me help with?" His tone is serious. Arthur knows that Francis knows; knows that the question didn't have to be asked. He is thankful that Francis knows him so well—even if he himself does not know Francis as well as he should.

Arthur grabs Francis by his wrist, turns on his heel once more and leads Francis upstairs, to his bedroom. They stand in the doorway for just a moment. Arthur releases his grip on Francis' wrist and meanders into the room, sits down on the floor in front of Alfred's closet, and tilts his head up to meet Francis' gaze. Gently, he pats the floor next to him, a deep frown on his face. Francis consents and sits down next to Arthur, pulling him closer around the hips, until their thighs brush against one another.

They look up at the white door, with its gold-colored knob and grainy wood pattern. Or, rather, Arthur was. Francis gazes at Arthur without restraint, keeps his arm around the man next to him. Whenever Arthur flits his eyes towards Francis, the Frenchman looks away and at the door. It is the twelfth time that this happens that Arthur finally catches Francis' gaze, after many long years. He gives a triumphant smirk.

Francis heaves a sigh before he reminds them of their agenda. "And what is it you want me to help you with?"

Arthur's smirk fades. "Letting go."

____

They rifle through the closet neatly, look through the clothing hung there. When Arthur has had his fill of that item, he hands it to Francis, lets the fabric slip from his hands, and watches as it's folded and stuffed into a nearby garbage bag. Alfred's old possessions slip through his grasp and out of his life, slowly, one-by-one until there is nothing left but the old photo album, tucked into the left corner under a pile of shoes they moved previously. As his fingertips brush against its spine, he shivers and half-draws his hand away, before Francis closes his own around it, warms it up.

"Come now. This is important." Francis dips his head to the side, glancing at him from the corner of his eye. With that hand to guide him, they pick up the photo album together; pull it from Alfred's closet. When it reaches the doorframe, Francis drops his grip. Arthur quickly pulls the beige photo album against his chest, cradling it gently; as if afraid it may break. He takes quick, panicked breaths before his shoulders slump and his head drops, and he picks up the book to place in the garbage bag. A hand grasps his wrist, pulls the album away from its former fate. Arthur's eyes snap wide open to look at Francis.

"What are you doing?"

Francis clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. "I believe I should be asking you that question."

"Well," Arthur glares, "I was trying to get on with this whole…forgetting and letting go thing."

"Ah, but forget? Why? He was important to you, was he not?"

"Of course he was! But he's been the problem. Any time I try to forget about him and move on, he just…he just keeps getting in the way!"

Those blue eyes seem sympathetic for a moment, soft and apologetic. "Arthur," he begins, in a tone as soft as his eyes once were—they were now stern, "it is never good to forget. I believe that through your trying, you have been agitating the situation. Remembrance, perhaps, may help."

"That makes no sense! How does thinking about Alfred help?!"

"If you forget, what kind of respect are you showing him? It will work, trust me." Francis rubs Arthur's back as the Brit thinks this over.

Hesitantly, Arthur replies, "…Alright."

Francis smiles slightly at him, pushes the photo album onto his lap and flips it open to the very first page. "Now then…this photo." He points at a photograph of Arthur and Alfred together outside of an ancient-looking school, Arthur scowling, Alfred with his arm over Arthur's shoulders. "Explain it to me. What's going on here?"

"It was…it was the day we got out before spring break. Alfred was going somewhere and wanted a few pictures to show to his family. He had Kiku take it," Arthur's eyes are shut, while his fingers rub the hard edges of the album.

"Was this before you were together?"

Arthur frowns. "Yes. We were just friends at this point. But…"

Francis flips the page to show another photo, in which Alfred has Arthur pulled into a hug, lifted off the ground and spun about, all captured in stillness. The only indication that Alfred had spun Arthur around was the fact that they were facing slightly to the side (that, and Arthur looked rather angry). "But?"

"…But this one is a few days after graduation, when we were dating." Arthur's eyes begin to sting. At the first threat of moisture threatening to spill over, he lifts his hands and wipes at the edges, presses the pads of his fingers into his skin and stretches as he drags them across his face. He sniffles once, twice. When the tears fall he chokes over his words. "I told him not to lift me but he did it anyways, and then on top of that, he spun me around! Stupid—stupid…!" He could not finish the sentence.

"Sh," Francis rubs his back with soft movements of the hand, digging his nails softly into the grooves in a way he knows Arthur adores, to find that the Brit expectedly arches his back and makes a soft sound of pleasure, still crying, but calmed if just a bit. "Do not cry…Arthur, sh…"

He holds Arthur until the onslaught of tears stem. They continue on together, remembering and letting go, remembering in order to let go, satiating Arthur's mind which feasts upon itself. Through this, they laugh, Arthur cries, Francis holds him, and when the light is gone and they tire, it is only until they reach the end of that book when they stop.

The final picture is not as recent as he had remembered it to be..

Alfred sits upon the tarps in their half-painted room, hair tousled, glasses askew, paint flecked all over his old shirt. He is grinning and seems to be laughing, pointing at a spot on the wall they were to paint over. It read, "Arthur + Alfred…loving you is easy! Living with you? A little more difficult!" His signature was below. Arthur turns his head away from the picture and buries it in Francis' shoulder, refuses to look at the photograph, but finds that Francis turns his head towards it, forces him to look at it.

"Do this for yourself, will you? If not for you, then for me," Francis pauses, "and if not for me, for him."

Arthur takes a deep breath, nods slowly, turns back to the picture and forces himself to focus on it, forces himself to remember. "…For you." His mind numbs, though his body is content to shed as many tears as it likes. With a gentle nudge from Francis, he shakes his head, runs his hand over the album's last page, and tries to ingrain the memory but let it slide away from him at the same time. He calms, remembers, moves on. He does what he set out to do.

Night is upon their tired heads. Arthur closes the photo album with finality, handing it to Francis. Francis stands, with Arthur clinging to his arm, and places it upon the top shelf of Alfred's old, empty closet. A lingering memory to look back at whenever he needs it.

Francis leads Arthur over to the dresser on the far side of the room, helps him dress in his pajamas. When Arthur offers a set of pajamas to the Frenchman, Francis declines. They fall upon the bed and cover themselves, held close to one another. Francis holds Arthur's hand to his chest, between his fingers, heart thrumming away beneath, kisses peppering the top. Arthur smiles at him, closing his reddened eyes upon the sweet humming of the man next to him.

"Je t'aime," Francis murmurs, eyes half-lidded, a bright smile that is no more exhausted than it is loving. Arthur's eyes snap open to view this, disbelief written all over his face. The smile he sees is the most beautiful he has ever seen Francis. His exhaustion is entirely overwritten. "Though you are difficult and extremely headstrong, I find myself in love with you. And I would not change a thing. Je t'aime, Arthur."

Arthur smiles at him. "I love you too, Francis."

And in the morning, when the sun wakes the sleeping couple, they will know that they have made it past the river, lying on the muddy banks, soaked and ragged, tired and covered in grime. Their relationship is a diamond in the rough, yet it sparkles all the same. In time, the grime will wash away, the facets will be cut, and they will open their eyes upon the muddy banks and know that there is such a thing as salvation.

_____

**Translation Notes:**

"Mon Dieu!" – My God!

"S'il vous plaît" – Please

"Bonjour!" – Hello!

"Oui" – Yes

"Mon amour" – My love

"Suis-je pardonné?" – Am I forgiven?

"Ne pas se soucier de lui." – Do not be concerned.

**Ending A/N:** As usual, feel free to correct me on my French—I'm really not all that good at it. I hope you've enjoyed Wading Through the River!


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